TEN MILES OFF THE COAST OF MEXICO
The supertanker grew smaller on the horizon as the coastline rose before them. Rows of towering palm trees dotted miles of deserted beaches before the terrain angled toward the foot of the mountains.
Salma had watched the cartel contingent through her binoculars as they had approached the Oceania thirty minutes ago. Two speedboats, bright hulls slicing through shallow waves, momentarily disappeared behind explosions of foam and mist, their pilots pushing the vessels with apparent urgency.
They will be here soon, she had thought, remembering the warning from Atiq. The Americans knew about the bomb in her tanker, prompting everyone to accelerate the transfer plans.
Shifting her attention from the incoming boats that Atiq had arranged with the local cartel, Salma stared at her hostages in the rear of the bridge. She kept them all on their knees, wrists zip-tied behind their backs, strips of duct tape over their mouths.
Subduing them had been easy, especially since her team had all the weapons.
Half the crew was up here, including Captain Sjöberg, who regarded her with a terrified blue-eyed stare. The rest, along with two of her men, were down in the engine room, also secured. Azis and Omar were on their way up to the transfer deck with their precious cargo to open the water-level access hatch and meet up with the cartel contingent.
In some strange way, Salma felt sorry for the Norwegian captain, who had conformed to her wishes, even coming up with creative reasons for steering the vessel this far south.
But it was time to move on, and she could not leave witnesses.
Clutching a 9mm Beretta 92FS, she walked up to the four crewmen. Thumbing the safety lever off, Salma cocked the weapon, chambering a round, the sound making two of the men whimper. But her ears were deaf to their muffled sobs as she faced her captives and leveled the weapon at the captain. Ignoring his pleading gaze, his stifled cries, she fired once.
The 9mm hollow-point round echoed inside the bridge. It pierced his forehead between the eyes, exiting through the rear in an explosion of blood, brains, and skull, spraying the control panel behind him.
The other three tried to get up, frightened moans filling the silence after their captain dropped to the tiled floor already a corpse.
She fired a round into each of their heads in rapid succession. Blood spattered on her face, neck, and chest, which she ignored, leaving them where they fell and making her way belowdecks.
Salma joined Azis, Omar, and the rest of her surviving crew huddled by the large oval hatch. Sunlight and fresh air pierced the compartment, washing over them as the boats approached, chrome handrails and fittings reflecting the afternoon sun.
“All good in the engine room?” she asked.
The large Muslim nodded. “No witnesses.”
“Good.”
The first boat maneuvered toward them. Up close the boats were far larger than she had realized, almost qualifying as yachts. Their decks rose and fell with the waves, making the transfer of men and cargo challenging even in relatively calm seas.
The key was timing, stepping onto the bow deck as the large speedboat rose like an elevator, reaching the short platform projecting beyond the hatch.
They boarded the boats, each manned by two cartel soldiers. One stood behind the controls, expertly keeping the boats neutral with the drifting tanker. The other assisted with the boarding process. All four were tanned, clean cut, wearing sunglasses, T-shirts, long shorts, sandals, and MAC-10 pistols secured in chest holsters.
Salma, Azis, and Omar waited for the second boat, handling the bomb transfer themselves, securing it in a compartment under the bow deck.
“I’m Alfonso Domingo,” said the man standing behind the controls in the center of the boat, which she now recognized as a very large Boston Whaler with three outboard motors. He was in his early thirties, muscular. “Don Montoya welcomes you to Mexico.”
“Where is he?” she asked, standing next to him, steadying herself by grabbing on to the edge of the windshield protecting the control panel.
“Monterrey,” he replied, turning the bow toward shore and steadily advancing the throttles. The large outboards rumbled, propelling them away from the tanker. “Your face, señorita. Are you all right?”
“Not my blood,” she said.
Alfonso reached under the control panel and produced a small towel, handing it to her.
Salma wiped her face before narrowing her gaze, trying to see beyond the glare.
“Here,” Alfonso said, passing her a pair of sunglasses, which she slipped on, relaxing her eyes.
“Thank you,” she replied, trying to enjoy the fresh air and the beautiful scenery. Turquoise waters led to pristine sands backdropped by lush green jungles and the mountains beyond.
Just like in the postcards, she thought, closing her eyes while letting the ocean mist cool her face.
And that’s when she heard what sounded like a helicopter. She turned around and stared into the distance.
“We’ll be fine,” Alfonso said. “We’re inside the twelve-mile belt of Mexican territorial waters and airspace.”
Salma kept looking at the eastern skies, finally spotting a dot just above the horizon.
“No American boats or drones allowed. Plus you’re under the protection of Don Montoya now. No one can touch you.”
“Well, I don’t think that guy got the memo,” she said, pointing to the east.
Alfonso told his man to take the control while he reached under the cockpit and pulled out a pair of binoculars, inspecting the horizon before passing them to Salma.
“U.S. Coast Guard.”
“How do you know?” she said, panning to the incoming helicopter, white with orange.
“Because it is my business to know that and also that he’s not supposed to be here.”
“Well, he is, Alfonso. Asshole is coming directly to us. Now what?” she asked, putting down the binoculars.
“We pretend to be vacationing,” he replied. “We’re just enjoying a beautiful day in Margaritaville.”
She frowned.
“I’m telling you. I know these gringos. They’re not going to shoot. They will circle us and ask us to stop, but they never shoot first.”
Salma looked at the incoming helicopter, then at the trunk, and back at the helicopter. “And if they do?”
The Mexican man smiled while patting the MAC-10 in his chest holster.
“That?” she said, pointing at the 9mm gun. “Against that?” She pointed at the chopper, now roughly a mile away, glistening in the sunlight. “Please tell me we have more than a bunch of glorified pea shooters for the money my government is paying you guys!”
* * *
“Please tell me you have a plan!” the pilot shouted as the boats came in view.
Wearing a set of headphones, Monica had the starboard door already open and her hands on the handles of the M240D gimbal-mounted to the deck, its muzzle trained on the closest of the two speedboats already halfway to shore.
“Come from behind and fly low and very fast alongside them a thousand feet out! I’m going to shoot their engines!”
But she knew it would not be that easy.
* * *
The first shots came from the side of the helicopter.
Everyone, even the two boat pilots, instinctively sought cover. But an instant later, as smoke trailed one of the outboards on the other boat plus two on their own, Salma realized the helicopter gunner’s intentions.
She stood up first, and her team followed, opening fire in unison with their AK-47s. Alfonso stood up next to her holding two MAC-10s, one in each hand, while his companion kept the bow pointed at the shore.
The staccato gunfire resonated across the waters as the chopper made a low and fast pass, skimming the water, making itself a hard target as it swept alongside them at a distance of around a thousand feet.
* * *
Monica unleashed a volley of 7.62x51mm NATO rounds on the sterns of both boats, taking out at least three outboards before the Coast Guard pilot cut hard left as the decks of both boats ignited with muzzle flashes.
The maneuver caught her off guard, throwing her across the deck just as a barrage of bullets ripped into the starboard side of the chopper, precisely where she had been a second before.
Monica rolled inside the Jayhawk as the Coast Guard operator performed some sort of evasive maneuver to get out of the kill zone. She tried to grab on to anything, finally getting ahold of the leg of a metal bench built into the port side.
By the time she managed to stand and stagger back to the cockpit, the pilot had turned the chopper around.
“Almost got them!” she shouted. “Make another pass!”
“No way! We almost got our—”
Monica pulled her Glock out again. “I swear I’m going to fucking shoot you right here!”
The pilot looked at the gun, and then back at the control panel, while swinging the helicopter back toward the boats and shouting, “This will go in my report!”
* * *
“Those have to be the craziest gringos I’ve ever seen!” Alfonso shouted as the Coast Guard helicopter came back after them, its side gunner planted firmly behind the machine guns. Tracers swept over the water, reaching another outboard, which went up in smoke.
Salma waited until it got in range of her Kalashnikov before leveling the weapon at the turbines. “Don’t shoot the fuselage, Alfonso! Our bullets can’t get through their armor. Shoot the engines!” she screamed. “Aim for the damn engines!”
“Hell!” Alfonso shouted the moment Salma started shooting. “Give them hell!”
* * *
Monica swept the sterns again, adjusting her fire. The vibrations of the helicopter and the guns rattled her hands, her arms, her shoulders, even her teeth as she guided the fire, legs spread for balance.
She had a small advantage: the M240D’s range. It allowed a few precious seconds of uninterrupted fire before the terrorists could retaliate with their handheld guns.
But the counterattack began soon enough, as another barrage of rounds struck the top of the chopper, just above her head. Several rounds buzzed past as she held her position, keeping the sterns in her sights as she—
Alarms blared inside the Jayhawk and it began to vibrate to the point that she lost her footing again. Falling on the flight deck, she rolled across it once more as smoke filled the compartment. The pilot broke off the attack, shoving the helicopter into a wickedly tight right turn, presenting the armored belly to the incoming fusillade.
Bullets peppered the underside like hammers from hell before they got out of range. She managed to stand and staggered back to the cockpit, realizing the pilot had flown them out of firing range and once more was headed back to the Oceania.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get me back over there!” she screamed, reaching for the Glock again.
“Can’t do!” He pointed at the instrumentation all lit up with emergency lights and annoying sirens. “Starboard turbine is gone and we’re losing oil pressure fast on the port turbine! Not sure if we can make it back to the tanker! Much less mount another attack!”
“I’d rather crash on top of the assholes!” she said, once more leveling the Glock at the man.
“Fine! Just fucking shoot me! But I’m taking this helicopter back to the ship!”
“Dammit!” she screamed at him. “There’s a nuclear weapon on those boats, and it’s headed for America!”
“And I had to shut down one turbine already!” he retorted, pointing at the dead gauges on the control panel. “We have less than a minute before I have to shut down the other one or it will catch fire! WE … CAN’T … CATCH … THEM!”
Monica tried to control her anger, storming out of the cockpit and standing by the starboard machine gun, spotting the trail of smoke behind the boats and loosing another volley. But she knew it would be futile.
Already beyond the range of the gun, they continued undisturbed toward the beach while trailing as much smoke as the Jayhawk.
She silently cursed them.
* * *
They stopped firing the moment the helicopter headed back out to sea, smoke billowing from its damaged engines.
Salma ran to the bow and knelt by the trunk, running a hand over its metallic surface, finding no bullet holes. Satisfied it had not been damaged, she glanced at the outboards, all now spewing smoke. But the Mexicans didn’t seem to care, keeping them running at full speed.
“Crazy fucking gringos!” Alfonso shouted, still holding his two guns.
Salma shook her head at the man while inspecting her surroundings, probing the skies to the north, to the south, and back to the east, and seeing nothing but blue skies.
Azis and Omar sat on the long benches lining the sides of the stern, holding their AK-47s and staring at the precise spot on the horizon where the chopper vanished. The second boat rode the waves a couple hundred feet to starboard, also trailing smoke. She could clearly see the rest of her team also scanning the skies.
Salma took a deep breath of warm air, suppressing her emotions in the wake of this unexpected firefight. Confidence slowly filled her as they cruised through the breaking waves and approached the beach, where three Toyota Land Cruisers waited by the tree line.
Putting the chopper attack, the tanker, and everything related to it behind her, she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the sun and the refreshing breeze. Her skills and instincts, plus the timely assistance from her network, had managed to get the weapon this far. Even with the Mexican contingent underestimating the enemy’s determination.
Salma prayed those same talents, with support from her new friends, would get her through whatever twists loomed in the next phase of her final mission.
“Hang tight,” Alfonso said as he steered the Boston Whaler through the surf and straight up the sand. The boat glided over the beach until friction stopped its momentum.
She jumped on the sand and never looked back at the ocean.